Yin and Yang
by KrasnyCassandra
Summary: Darkness and light-intertwined and inseparable. An M rated look at the dynamic between Oliver's darkness and Felicity's light.
1. Yin

**I do not own the characters, settings or storylines of "Arrow". No copyright infringement is intended and no monetary gain is sought from this work of creative license. This story is rated M for strong sexual content. You've been warned. Also, this story is, obviously, non-canon.**

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In the darkness he is ruthless. He identifies a target and stalks it until the climatic ending. It has been that way since the island, since he returned, since she first came to understand what it was he did here in his man-made cave.

He's come in from the night dripping rainwater onto the cold concrete floor. There's a cut above his eye, again. She rises to grab the first aid kit, but his glare and Diggle's actions send her back into her chair. The older man tosses the bandages and salves to the hooded figure and stalks out without even wishing her a good night. She knows, then, that they have argued and neither one is satisfied with the outcome.

He marches around throwing off clothing and weapons. For all of that, for all of his rage, though, he is quiet. She would have been muttering, gesticulating with hands as words tumbled from her lips. All of his tortured dialogue remains locked in his head.

Her chair squeaks when she shifts her weight. His head snaps around. Blue eyes drill into hers, daring her to comment. She does not.

"Come here," he growls in the voice of the night. This is the voice the dark ones hear, the one they fear.

A smart woman would, should, run. She does not. She crosses the floor to him, her heels echoing in regular rhythm. It's good, she thinks, that her shoes are so loud, it covers the pounding bass beat of her heart. When she reaches him, before he can snap at her, or order her away, or do anything at all, she reaches up and gently strokes a finger over the bandaged cut.

His breath hisses out. He sucks in another, making his bare chest expand perilously close to her pink sweater clad form. He needs to send her away. He should send her away. He is dangerous. The world is dark and deadly and no place for a bright little butterfly. No, she's not quite that ephemeral. She's a humming bird, quick, bright, sturdier than first assumed. A creature of sunshine too long ensconced in his private hell. He moves a hand to pull hers away but his fingers get inexplicably distracted. They brush against her cheek, over her many-ringed ear.

And then he is lost and she with him. Both hands rise up and tangle in her lose hair. His hands are rough and scarred, but he tries to be gentle when he holds her head still.

She isn't afraid. She blinks up at him and smiles ever so softly, further sealing both their fates. When his hungry lips crash down onto hers, she doesn't flinch. She moans. She pulls on his shoulders, trying to bring him closer.

In the darkness there are no more thoughts of the world beyond the moment.

He feels her back arch as she presses against him and he stops thinking about right and wrong, morality, and much of anything else. His needs are primal, now. He needs her; he wants her; he _has_ her. There's no bothering to ask if she's sure because there's no chivalry left in him. One muscled arm binds her around the waist as the other pulls her sweater from her body and over her head. He tosses it somewhere. He doesn't much care where it lands. She's kissing him frantically now, fingernails scoring over his already marked shoulders.

The bright pink sweater hid a pale turquoise bra. The contrast of her pale skin and the colorful fabric makes him nearly frantic. He growls her name, kisses her until she's panting for air, and moves his lips down her throat. He sucks lightly on her delicate collarbones but doesn't waste any time on his trek down her body. Deft fingers release the bra catch. He yanks it off, noticing her amused, faintly critical, look. He doesn't like that look. She's thinking and he wants her as incoherent as he is.

When he lifts her straight up off the floor she makes a very un-sexy squeak. He cannot hear it, though, because he's fastened his lips on her breasts that are now level with his mouth. She spares a thought to wonder how long he can hold her like this, but then quickly loses interest in the answer.

He turns, still holding her aloft and walks to a table. Its uncluttered surface is an anomaly in his lair, but he's grateful for it. As soon as her backside his the tabletop his fingers are sliding down her legs, past her skirt to her ridiculously colorful shoes. They fall to the floor. Her skirt is short—too short for other men to be seeing her in, his mind growls—so it will be no impediment. He watches her watch him as he works his way out of his tight pants. They are perfect for his work as the savior of Starling City, but are taking him far too many seconds to remove.

She wriggles on the tabletop. His hands shoot out to fasten on her hips, dragging her forward and nearly off the edge. The floaty black skirt billows around his hands as he yanks her underwear from her body. They are flung aside to join the rest of the clothing. She is wearing only her skirt, rucked around her waist. He is nude. Neither of them notices the cold.

Her fingers dance over his scars and caress the tattooed skin. He slides one palm behind her head and the other beneath her body. The one holds her in place for his kiss, the other lifts her. Her back arches again, she jerks her head from his grasp and shudders from the tip of her blonde head to the dainty toes that are curling even as her legs clasp his waist. He grunts in irritation. He was enjoying that kiss. He wants it back. He makes do with watching her skin flush as she moves with him.

His hands flex, pulling her higher against his body so that he can drive deeper. Her teeth mar the skin above his collarbone

She's quivering, her soft cries echoing in the basement rooms. He reclaims her mouth, quieting her. He moves quicker now, driving them both toward a seemingly elusive break in the clouds.

In the end they are wrapped around each other, gasping for breath. Her head rests on his shoulder; his rests against hers. Their breath mingles. They are together.

In the darkness there is no idle chatter, only guttural commands and whimpered pleas.

In the darkness there are only frenzied kisses and grasping touches.

In the darkness they are physical beings, needing, wanting, taking.

She is a tiny spark of light in the cold black.


	2. Yang

In broad daylight, she is indomitable. She has, for all intents and purposes, kidnapped him. Oliver Queen, richest, deadliest, man in Starling City was being held captive by his IT guru. She lost a bet with him but has turned the situation to her advantage. He wonders if her ingenuity will ever cease to shock him. He sincerely hopes it won't.

She owed him lunch as payment for the lost wager. He'd foolishly not specified where lunch would be provided. So, she'd marched into his office at Queen Consolidated babbling on about router explosions or some such nonsense—he'd been too busy smiling at her pretense to listen to the words—and hurried him down to her car. They arrived at her apartment to find the delivery man waiting. Leave it to her, he thought, to time everything perfectly.

She flitted around the apartment bringing out utensils and jabbering feely the whole time. Her boundless energy soothed his aching soul, as it always did. They settled on the couch to watch the 2009 version of _Star Trek_. When he commented that he didn't understand the physics of light as well as she, but he was fairly certain that the lens flares in space were oddly placed, she poked him in the ribs with her chopsticks.

Retaliation was mandated. He pounced on her with a devious grin, his fingers searching for ribs and other devilishly ticklish spots. She squealed and he laughed until they were both breathless. She made him re-watch the parts of the movie they missed. He allowed it only because his head was pillowed on her lithe thighs and taking the remote away would have meant moving.

He so rarely slept for more than a few hours, and never soundly and never in a strange place. So, when he wakes to find the apartment bathed in a glorious orange glow of late afternoon sunshine, he is shocked. His head still lies on her lap. Her fingers stroke through the short hair near his ear. It is an absent-minded, soothing, gesture. He looks up to find her smiling softly down at him.

He pushes to a standing position, intent upon apologizing for falling asleep. Before the words can leave his mouth she's taken his hand and is pulling him toward the back of the apartment. She doesn't speak as she leads him to her bed.

While he sits on the edge of her flagrantly feminine bedspread, she stands in front of him and removes her sunflower-yellow blouse. The bra she's been hiding from everyone else is pine green and more lace than support. He blinks twice as his brain processes the silent statement made by the colour.

He needs to go. He needs to leave before he hurts this brilliant hued miracle who fills his days with laughter and light. But she's standing there, bathed in sunshine offering herself with an honesty that hurts his very bones. If he stays she _could_ be hurt. If he leaves she _will_ be hurt.

Not that she gives him a choice. Her slacks, so very proper for office wear, pool around her tiny little ankles. She doesn't give him time to appreciate the sight of the matching green panties. Less than five minutes after entering her bedroom, she stands proudly before him, glowing and naked.

Because the light seems to radiate from her body like one of those oddly placed lens flares, he half-expects her skin to burn him. The soft flesh of her hips is cool to his touch, though, as she finally steps close enough to be properly worshipped. His lips and fingers are properly reverent, occupying his time as she gently divests him of his clothing. He accidentally strokes a finger over a rib making her giggle with delight.

This will be no hurried, frantic, lust driven encounter in the dark and cold. Sunbeams dance over their languid forms as she pushes him back and kneels above him. That she intends to take her time is abundantly clear.

Her kisses slide over the round scar high on his left shoulder, down to the long slashes across his abdomen, and skate across the tops of his thighs. Blue eyes look at him through long dark lashes, mischievous and daring. She takes him into her mouth even as she stares him down. He blinks first, the raw physical sensations of her tongue sliding over him too much for his concentration.

She toys with him, driving him to the brink and easing him back down. His scarred hands fist in the cream-coloured sheets while his jaw clenches. Bit by bit this woman has chiseled away at his emotional defenses. Now she's attacking his control, taunting his mastery of his body.

Unable to take much more, he grabs her ponytail and loops it once, twice around his hand. Her head comes up slowly. That devilish little tongue flicks out and rolls along her bottom lip. He tugs again, pulling her forward and up his body. She deigns to indulge him in a kiss. While her tongue flirts with his, his nimble fingers snap the band holding her hair. He laughs at her squeak of outrage.

Laughter stills when her hips lift. She's staring him down again, but this time he has an anchor. As she slowly seats herself on him, he keeps a death grip in her hair. It is she who looks away first, this time. Her back arches, bringing him deeper while thrusting her beautiful breasts closer to his mouth. He cannot quite reach them without moving her but he's content to wait. Let her enjoy her moment in the sun, he thinks.

It is, literally, that. She's rocking above him, blonde hair spilling around her shoulders, as sunlight highlights every inch of her. The sight makes his breath hitch. His hands glide up her thighs until his thumbs meet at the point where their bodies are fused. He watches her eyelids flutter close and her head fall back. She loses her steady rhythm atop him. Her breath catches. She sighs ecstatically. A long shudder rolls down her body.

She looks down at him, flexes the fingers resting on his chest, and smiles.

"Oliver."

It's one word in a sea of light. A simple statement of his name, but it is _his_ name. Not his nickname, not his assumed titles or aliases, just a simple summation of all that she is to him. It should be crushing-the weight of living up to the honor she is bestowing on him with her trust, her body, her love—but it is, instead, freeing.

He sits up, twines a muscled leg with hers and flips them over. He's quite proud of the maneuver, since he managed to keep them joined throughout. Her laughter dings his ego for a brief moment, but he decides to repay her in the best possible way. He captures her hands at either side of her head, interlacing their fingers, and rocks his hips against her. Her pupils dilate. A throaty chuckle of triumph escapes him.

He cannot save every life in this wicked city. He cannot prevent every disaster. He cannot answer the questions of law enforcement or soothe the hurts of his abandoned sister. But he can, right here in this moment, make this woman happy. _He_ can be happy. Her joy now suffuses every aspect of his life.

In the end they are wrapped around each other, gasping for breath. His forehead rests against hers. Their smiles tangle. They are together.

In the light there are giggles, banter, and shouts of ecstasy.

In the light there are slow caresses and long, soul-shattering kisses.

In the light they are emotional beings, needing, caring, sharing.

He is the mote of darkness surrounded by her light.


End file.
